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by 88KeysOfSadism



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Possibly Triggering, Why Did I Write This?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-24
Updated: 2015-02-24
Packaged: 2018-03-14 23:05:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3428843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/88KeysOfSadism/pseuds/88KeysOfSadism
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tim is way, way out of his comfort zone. And it's only going to get worse from here.</p>
            </blockquote>





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**Author's Note:**

> This chapter has triggers for rape, but it can also be skipped if you want. The next one won't have triggers like this.

Tim is way, way out of his comfort zone. He’s only one block over from the red light district, and apparently, one of Gotham’s “Ladies of the night” has left her window open while she works, because he’s heard screaming and the squeaking of the bed for the past half hour.

Although Tim doesn't necessarily agree with the ethics of prostitution, he has to give them a little bit of credit; he's wearing two layers of clothes and still shivering, while a scantily clad woman across the street is leaning against an ice cold metal pole, and it doesn't seem to faze her at all.

Of course, he would never be down here if he had a choice. Jason's told him horror stories about things people have done to prostitutes- Tim's never asked how he knows all this, but maybe he should- and just the idea of those kinds of predators lurking around in the dark is enough to make the teenaged vigilante shiver twice as much as he should. As it is, Tim truly has no choice in the matter. He's the bait, and he doesn't like it one bit.

Someone has been taking people off the streets near here, and the only thing consistent between the victims are that they all have black hair, blue eyes, and none of them have ever been seen again. Nothing consistent with age or gender or height or weight or poverty level or profession. Just hair and eye color, and being within five miles of the red light district.

Considering that Dick is busy with his own mess in Bludhaven, the only other people with black hair and blue eyes are Bruce, Damian, and himself. But sending the Batman in as a captive himself is a terrible idea, and sending Damian in could result in terrible mental scarring.

Naturally, Tim is the only choice, even though playing hood rat isn't really his thing. But he's managed to make himself look as small as possible by stuffing himself into oversized clothes and hunching into a corner of an alley. There's a tracker in the tag of his hoodie; all he has to do is let himself get kidnapped, and Bruce will track him to wherever he's taken- and hopefully to all the other captives as well.

Which is why when he sees someone enter the alley from the other end, he doesn’t tense up or grab a weapon. And when a cloth is pressed over his face, all he does is struggle feebly and try to call for help before going limp and letting the darkness take him.

 

 

 

 

Everything is hazy when he wakes up, and he can only assume that he’s been drugged in some other way because this is seriously annoying and not a side effect of being knocked out. There’s a bright light pointing at him, causing him to cringe and shut his eyes.

Unfamiliar voices sound around him, a loud one right next to him, and a bunch of them far away. It sounds like a crowd before him, but he’s not about to face the bright light again to look.

As he becomes more and more aware of what’s around him, he can hear quiet whimpering coming from his other side. If he had to guess, he’d say it was a girl about in her early twenties; just a few years older than he is. There are probably more people besides her, but he can’t be sure how many until he opens his eyes and faces that nasty light again.

Just as he’s gathering the courage to do so, someone forces his head back and peels his eyelids apart. There’s a tall man in front of him, peering down, but everything is still too blurry to tell any facial features. A freezing hand drags across his bare chest, and he shivers, recoiling.

And then a feeling like ice washes over him and he can’t even breathe.

He’s got no clothes on. He has no trackers.

Bruce can’t find him.

This is real.

The same cold hand pries his jaw down, and Tim can feel a finger running across his teeth.

So he does the only logical thing and bites down- hard.

The man in front of him cries out in pain, and all hands leave his body. There’s only a moment of relief, however, before someone roughly grabs his hair, yanking his head towards the floor. He shouts in pain, but the hand doesn’t let go. People are shouting, the girl next to him screams something in what he thinks might be Russian, and then he hears a snapping noise behind him and it sounds like a whip and _shit_ they aren’t actually going to whip him are they?

And then everything stops.

Someone above him is talking in a low, almost soothing voice. Something about, “Half price, since he’s a fighter.” The voice sounds almost suspiciously like Bruce, though he expected Batman. Bruce is just as good though, and the next minute, someone ties a bag around his head and he’s forced to his feet.

Tim stumbles down a set of stairs, and a warm hand touches his back, gently guiding him through what feels like a crowd of people. Hands reach out to touch him as he passes by, but they’re smacked away with a defensive growl that sounds _exactly_ like Batman’s growl.

He breathes a sigh of relief. It’s over.

He takes one step outside and instantly wants to go back in. It’s gotten colder, and the cold wind whips at his skin, biting in like needles all over. He whimpers softly, pressing himself against the warm man- Bruce- leading him.

He can hear a car door open in front of him, and he cautiously steps into the car, sitting down on the leather seat. The car is actually warm, and he hears two other people climb in before the door slams shut.

His savior doesn’t sit next to him, but rather across from him- they must be in a limousine. He can feel eyes on him, and it makes him feel slightly uncomfortable, but he ignores the feeling. He’s safe now; his mind is just going crazy. He can’t help but wonder why Bruce is still keeping the bag on his head, but he assumes it’s for a good reason. Bruce never does anything without a reason.

The car finally stops, and he’s once again led blindly away. He can feel cold cement of a garage, then tile- probably a kitchen- and finally carpeted steps and more carpet.

A door in front of him is opened, and he’s pushed wordlessly onto a plush bed before his guide exits the room.

Tim instantly goes to take off the bag over his head, but it’s tied in an intricate knot that he can’t seem to undo on his own, especially without seeing it. So he waits.

After what feels like forever, the door opens again, and someone else walks in. They walk right over to the bed and untie the bag.

The words, “Bruce, I’m so sorry,” die on his tongue. Before him is a man he’s never seen, graying hair and overweight and a piggish face, and Tim knows without looking that the man before him isn’t wearing any clothes.

Cold panic washes through him and he dives for the edge of the bed, but the disgusting man grabs him by the ankle and drags him back. He grapples with the blankets, desperate for something to hold onto, but the man unhooks his fists and pins both of Tim’s hands with one of his own huge ones.

He tries to kick out, but his legs get pinned. He squirms, and a meaty hand grips his hip, almost tenderly rubbing his skin.

“Stop! Stop touching me! Leave me alone!”

His cries are ignored and the massive hand travels further up his chest, almost reverently tracing his scars and his muscles.

Tim forces his eyes shut, shaking all over, and tries to detach himself, tries to distract his mind by thinking of literally anything else on the planet besides the hand traveling lower on his chest.

His captor starts speaking, but his words are lost, and the hand goes lower and- _nobody’s supposed to touch him there please stop don’t-_ Tim’s eyes fly open and he gets half a glimpse of the fat man practically slobbering over him before his eyes snap away to the wall.

There’s a painting of a morose little boy with big, sad eyes. He’s clutching a stuffed rabbit by the ears, seeming to stare right back at him, no more than seven years old. He can’t help but wonder how many times the little boy has watched, how many people have stared at the picture before Tim.

How many people have lost their innocence like this?

And then numbness washes over him, and he stops thinking.


End file.
